Drunk Deductions
by I'mDatingTheReceptionist
Summary: John spirals into a drunken state when he finds out the truth about who shot Sherlock. J/S.


Sherlock hears the ice clinking against the glass before he can walk through the door.

He stops at the landing and just listens.

Upstairs.

John's upstairs. Already gone to bed, it seems. Yet still awake.

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath when he hears the scrape of the whiskey bottle being taken from his nightstand and the remnants being poured over the ice, into his glass to top it up. He closes his eyes momentarily, wondering whether to disturb what peace John had created for himself or leave him be for the night.

He had gone to get dinner for the both of them, having forgotten to order it on the phone, and knew that once he left the flat, John would start his challenge of 'How many glasses of alcohol can I down before Sherlock gets back?' Sherlock had calculated it on the way to the restaurant. He didn't _want_ to, didn't _mean_ to exactly, but he'd done it from a cursed reflex, and swore inwardly when he got to 6. 4 if he hurried. Take-away places were always packed on Fridays, and when Sherlock had seen the many people waiting around for their meal, he automatically clocked on another 2.

John had been...different since he'd found out what Mary had done to Sherlock. It hadn't been just the drinking. His mood had changed drastically; exhausted mentally from trying to wrap his head around it all, emotionally from having to spend so much time away from Mary, and physically from the many bottles he had emptied over the nights. Sherlock was used to John drinking - he'd easily picked up on the problem from how he'd held a cup to his facial expressions when a neighbour had brought round a bottle of red wine as a housewarming gift on their first week at 221 - but he had never thought it would _ever_ get this bad. Once again, Sherlock had greatly underestimated Johns response to a rather pressing issue. He really had to think this stuff through first.

John had moved back to Baker Street as soon as he'd found out. He'd read the flash drive a week in, upstairs in his room in privacy while Sherlock was in his armchair reading a book, and when John had come down an hour later, they'd stared at eachother with him on the landing, and Sherlock had wordlessly watched him walk to the fire and toss the memory stick in. He'd stayed there until the wood had turned to ash and the flames had finally burnt out.

The drinking had come soon after.

It had spiralled very quickly into a vice. The more John thought about the memory stick, the more he drank. Sometimes Sherlock would come home to a passed out John in his armchair, sometimes a sniggering one on the floor. If it was really bad, he would hear John emptying it all in the bathroom and have to drag him to his own bed to sleep while Sherlock took the couch. But that was only rarely.

John had had to quit his job, and hardly came out on cases from the bleeding hangovers he'd had in the mornings. And while Sherlock didn't always need Johns input, he missed having him by his side, and Lestrade had caught him more than once speaking to thin air in great detail about a case he was working on. It was sad, really. The whole situation was. And all Sherlock wanted to do was talk to John. But his flatmate would just go up to his room and shut the door when he saw an impending conversation going on in Sherlocks head.

Sherlock sighs as he carefully sets the bag on the floor, making sure it doesn't rustle too much, then puts hands back in his pockets. He waits for the sound of another bottle being opened, cap this time so one from a box, before making his way up. His footsteps are purposefully quiet as he listens to John giggle and take sip after sip, and he stops at the landing. There's a soft light from the crack in Johns door, and he can see him sat on the edge of the bed in a shirt and boxers, bottle clutched in hand with his eyes on the carpet. He's not skulling this one. Nursing it. Maybe he does know Sherlock's home. Or maybe he's promised himself one more before crawling under the covers for the night. Sherlock bites his lip as he stretches out a hand to press on the door. He gently pushes it open, and John jumps, his eyes staring wildly at Sherlock as he walks through into the room. Even from this distance, he can see Johns eyes are wet.

"Jesus. Warn a guy next time." It's slurred, so yes, second one. _He's clutching the bottle, something to grasp to from the fright, but he's probably not going to finish it based on his reaction to -_

Sherlock swallows. No. Stop. Focus.

He looks John dead in the eye, his lips curling in disgust at his flatmate goes back to his beer, "You're drunk again," he says firmly.

John snorts, "No shit, Sherlock." He takes a large swig, lets it sit in his mouth for a second, then gulps it down and rests the bottle on his knee. Sherlock steps more in and chooses a spot close to the door, his eyes darting about John as he picks out anything and everything on his current state, his clothing, and the more he discovers, the more saddened he becomes. But he doesn't show it. He tries not to.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Perhaps he can get something out of John this time. He purses his lips, digs his hands back in his pockets, then casts his eyes over the shadow of his reflection, "Care to elaborate?"

There's a pause in the air as John looks slowly up at him, "Do I have to?"

"She loves you, John." _Don't do this. Stop doing this. Go back to her, please. For your safety, for the babys._

He doesn't need to be told who 'she' is. They've had this unspoken conversation every single day since John came back here.

John smiles tightly, "And I loved her." He says it so easily, that it cuts through Sherlock like a sharp blade. He sets the bottle on the nightstand and gives Sherlock his full attention, "But then you come back from the dead like you're jesus and she goes and shoots you." He shrugs halfheartedly. Given up. Accepted it. But somehow, he still needs the good old liquid courage. Sherlock frowns. He can't fit this together.

John suddenly gives an impenitent giggle, and though it should somehow lighten the crackling tension in the air, it's just..made it worse, especially when Johns face relaxes and his eyes glaze over, "It's like a bloody soap. All that's missing is an affair."

Sherlock attempts to fix the atmosphere with a smile. He has an idea where John's going with this, but to him, it's a dig at Sherlocks own guilt, "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Well, you would know." He picks up his beer again, "You watch those shows all the time." When Sherlock doesn't say anything, he gestures his drink to him with a knowing smile, "It's the only trope that hasn't been ticked off, mate."

A long silence comes between them as Sherlock watches him carefully and John looks at him with a glassy stare and a few giggles slip out as Sherlock finally comes forward to take the bottle from Johns hands. He places it on the floor, and steps to his right, but otherwise doesn't move to sit beside him, "You _will_ go back to Mary, won't you?"

John scoffs at him, shaking his head, "No."

Sherlocks brows furrow, "Why not?" _If not for her, then do it for your unborn child._

John stares at him and his eyes widen slightly, "Because she shot you, you idiot." He puts a hand out in exasperation, "She almost _killed_ you, Sherlock, and - and I couldn't sleep next to the woman who had done that...to you…"

"What about the baby?"

"I…" John rakes a hand through his hair, "I guess she'll have to grow up without a father."

"...John - "

He looks at him sharply, "Well, it's better than what I grew up with, Sherlock. A drunk...bastard who hated both Harry and I." He bends down to grab at the bottle again and Sherlock sighs at the ceiling as he tilts it to his mouth for the last few drops.

Despite having a tight grip on it, Sherlock easily takes it back and John glares at him, but he ignores it to spit bitterly at him, "You're not a bastard, John, but you're making quite a clear example of a drunk who hates himself."

John laughs, "I've always been that, Sherlock. You should've seen me before you met me." He stands and pushes past Sherlock for a full box of beers sitting in front of his closet, but Sherlock grips his arm. Tightly so he stops and stares incredulously at him.

"What're you doing?"

"John, sit down."

John stays still, blinking in confusion at him, "I'm just..getting another drink."

"No, you're not."

When John rips his arm away, Sherlock stares ahead at the wall and listens to John uncap another bottle from the batch. From the deductions he'd made, he knows this should be Johns last one.

No.

No he's not letting this happen anymore. He's done with this mess.

As John pads back to bed, Sherlock turns around and snatches it from his hold. John immediately retorts by making a move for it, but Sherlock takes a large mouthful and puts the bottle on his chest of drawers. He swallows it down, shaking his head when the aftertaste hits, then exhales slowly to start again. John's still rooted to the carpet.

"Rosie doesn't have to grow up without a father, John."

Knowing it's hopeless to try for the beer, John slumps down on the mattress with his eyes firmly on his flatmate. He has a wry smile and his shoulders raise in a defeated shrug, "Have you seen me lately? I'm not exactly what you would call 'dad of the year'."

Sherlock bristles. He feels a sudden anger begin to rise in him, and his body tightens, "This isn't about you. None of this is."

John chuckles, "Oh, that's right. It's about you, isn't it. Sorry the great detective can't handle this. Sorry his flatmate's gotten shit drunk almost every night when he discovered his wife had shot him. Sorry I'm going through a very _real_ and _normal_ human reaction."

"Don't be an idiot - of _course_ this isn't about me. This is about your unborn daughter, Rosie." His nose crinkles, "And is this _really_ what you call normal? Drinking your bodyweight in alcohol for weeks until you black out in the kitchen? Moping about the flat while your wife sits at home, 7 months pregnant as she deals with this alone? For gods sake, Mary _needs_ you."

"Why, so she can shoot me too?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw. Despite the completely burning frustration over his flatemate, he just manages to put it aside to speak clearly for the first time since he came up here, "I know what she did was unforgivable. I know she hurt you and destroyed our lives, but you have got to listen to me when I say that you have to go back to her." When John starts shaking his head in disbelief, he sighs, "If you won't do it for her, then do it for Rosie."

He stops to wait for Johns reaction, and as he lowers his head to the carpet, deductions start flying at him. None of them are of John changing his mind.

Fantastic.

"I can't, Sherlock," His voice's low, words slurred again, "It wouldn't be fair for her to grow up in a house with parents who don't love each other. What kind of example would that set her?"

Sherlock glances at the ceiling, "Well, you're not exactly setting a better one at the moment."

Johns shoulders shake, and for a second, Sherlocks heart drops. _He isn't crying, is he? No. No, he's laughing. Good, that's...something._ John looks up at him, and his eyes're crinkled, "No, I guess you're right." He stands to grab the beer back off the dresser, and Sherlock doesn't stop him this time. He can't anymore, "But at least she'll never have to see or hear from me. As far as Mary's concerned, Rosie doesn't have a father."

"As far as _you're_ concerned," Sherlock corrects him ruefully.

John leans against the dresser and looks right at him, "Take it from someone who had a shitty childhood; this is the best decision for her."

"This isn't you, John. This isn't who you are. You would never say this if you - "

"If I what, grew up with a loving father? If I got to experience having a good life?" He gestures the bottle to him and Sherlock shuts his mouth, "You have no idea what it was like."

Sherlock has an urgent need to take the bottle away from him, "You're right, I don't. But what you're doing isn't fair to anyone, John. You can't just sit back and let your daughter miss out on knowing who her dad is."

A heavy silence falls on the room and John makes no attempt whatsoever at giving a response. They're essentially going in circles at this point, and both of them know it. He sips slowly at his drink, and Sherlock ruffles his hair in agitation as he finally moves away towards the door, fighting the want to knock the bottle from his hand, "There's some cold chinese downstairs if you want some."

John goes back to his bed, "Thanks."

That's it. Nothing more. Sherlock still hovers at the door, but when he knows for sure John's done with the conversation, he begins to slip out, until a thin brown package sticking out of his nightstand drawer catches his eye.

 _What…?_

John's halfway through his drink when Sherlock crosses the room, and he's snapped out of it upon hearing him grab something from beside him. Sherlock steps back as John looks up, and when he realises what he's holding, he stands in an instant, "Give it back."

But Sherlock can't hear him. He's examining it, his eyes running over the familiar return address and feeling the light weight of its contents. Just as Sherlock's about to tip them into his palm, it's ripped from his fingers and John scowls at him, the package by his side.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock looks at him evenly. He knows he's crossing a line. He knows he should have walked out and left it alone. But he couldn't bloody help himself. He glances at the package, then holds Johns gaze, "They're scan pictures, aren't they?"

John swallows hard. He carefully sets the bottle on the carpet, then resigns himself to letting Sherlock in for the first time that night; Sherlock's quiet as he watches John take the photos out, and his voice is brittle as he goes through the pile, "She sent these a few days ago, I...I only glanced at them."

"She still wants you in the picture, then."

John's blinking back tears, though doesn't say anything in reply, and they both go through the scans together. After a moment, Sherlock looks up at John, and something suddenly falls on him. How John's looking at the photos, how he has a gentle hold on them, how he opened it the moment he realised it was for him…

He knows John's real answer.

Sherlock feels a weight come off him, "I'll be downstairs if you need me." With that, he quietly leaves the room and after putting the dinner in the fridge, goes to the living room where his violin sits on his arm chair.

Soon, soft notes float through the flat, and Sherlock stares out the window at the streetlamps.

He knows for certainty that the beer John has just finished _will_ be his final one.


End file.
